


Auld Lang Syne

by ThereminVox



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Prepare your Odradek for this peregrination of a story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: “The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.”-Samuel Beckett
Relationships: Heartman/Original Female Character(s), Higgs Monaghan/Amelie Strand, Higgs Monaghan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Recce

* * *

**How long?**

_A minute.._

**Had it been?**

_An hour..._

**Since his arrival?**

_A day..._

**How many weeks?**

_A month…_

**Had passed?**

_A year…_

**Since she appeared before him…**

_A decade…_

**fleeting siren of mirage…**

_A century..._

Higgs Monaghan was not a man who valued time. At least, not in the ottomised architecture devised by his fellow man. 

Past; 

present; 

future. 

Every second, an eon. Every digit, an absolute zero in the fractured thermometer of stillborn space. 

Time was a frozen conceptual in the womb of a styptic, existential void. Empty and attracting only of despondent things. Dejected, wretched, beheaded things. Things that were ineffable to human optics. Concealed and cowered beneath thickened brush of consciousness. Things conceived of abstraction, to be sure. As abstract in comprehension as the words that here illustrate his predicament. 

To escape the punishing compression of bruised lungs, the only respirations to afford egress are by inquiry. Where population was simplified to the punctuation mark of a sole survivor, the only remainder in the equation was yet an error through input of calculation. When did the expansion end and the contraction begin? There would always be a question to rebel against these unspeakable seeds of sentience. Sat along the Stygian shore, Higgs ponders these ‘things’. Wonders if his (and their) suffering would ever find footing in this treacherous terrain. 

Empathy was, hence, a fickle thing. 

Namely, a _Beached Thing._

Here, it swims, stranded in lotic waves, suffering to ponder with the sage at sea. Here, there is no need to question why it stands alone, loafing about the flat, roiling tar, feet threadbare. From the head descending, an eldritch fusing of man and foetus. A single tear, kissed by the sting of chiral density, traces a strand of its own, asymmetric and disconnected along the zygomatic contour, scarred and marred by the essence he submits to kneel for. To whom his prayer concerns is yet prey to deaf ears. Yet to decide if sensitivity should be sentenced to guilt opposed to the allergy of chiralium.

It was his “fellow” man who were dogged in attempts to make common sense of time. From 60 seconds, to 60 minutes, to 24 hours, to a mean of 30.4 days, 365 a year, unraveling to illusive thread of circadian rhythm, each fabrication of clock was endowed by insouciance. 

Time was no friend of Man. Why should _he_ deign to reciprocate? To reaffirm his standing amongst the transience of their frangible value. To identify as human meant submitting to the infirmity. Accepting the regression of mind, body, and soul as incontrovertible sacrifice for reasons untold. Reasons largely inconspicuous to the psyche’s hidden depth of processing. And, to quote an ‘Ancient‘, certainly he could agree that, in a world governed by singular perception, there existed no facts; only interpretations. 

It had been ages since he last visited his Beach. The memories of these sparse ventures were scabs best left unpicked. As such, it was only fair that he expect the unexpected. As if the grip of desolation couldn’t be more grimly mocking in texture. To give sentience to his alexithymia, he begins to sympathise with the scourge inflicted upon his proclaimed victory over nihilism. ‘Meaning’ was yet a sickening aftertaste seeping into the gums, irritating the throat screamed raw. Futility was his drug but withdrawal had conquered the bloodstream, just as ravenously addictive in recovery. 

Hourglasses, suspended in the air, tethered to the beast of no man’s land. 

There was no mistaking the chronometer’s shattered surface. How could his ego ignore its faint tick? How could he be so helpless against the modest grist of unresponsive tenor? Of still winds diverted by a foreign body. He wonders how _his_ Beach could bear any significance compared to the thousands of tragedies connected in relativity. Why does _his_ liminal headscape of recurring pain deserve to be injected in the same vein of infected strain? Perhaps his questioning of the elusive matter would only affirm him as selfish. Like all else who share the burden of extrasensory perception, via DOOMS or repatriation, Higgs, indeed, felt acutely punished by the clarity of his haunting history. 

The past did, here, evoke sleepless limbs. Devoid of hand to feed the glass with sand. Here, it glides, idle wraith dressed by contour of silicon skin. Tangible in appearance. Deceptive and cursory in substance. Her body, a rustic, ferrous vehicle. Submersible and vulnerable to the harsh elements of brine. Reduced in presence to a murky trick of mind in shallow tide. 

Perhaps, he could invite the frigid, ominous zephyr, sluicing through his mask, penetrating gold, rubber and ageless flesh. Zeitgeist’s curvature of a circumzenithal arc, colours abound to paint the monochrome. Maybe his understanding was a mere stripe missing. Ergo, he might begin to understand why. If only he could just…

“ _Sea_.”

Approaching from behind, easing, eavesdropping. A frosty timbre that complements those gelid moans of spectral entities: maternal and devastating to the lonesome boy deserted to a beach of shoals. Yet, this tone of feminal build was different than expected. One that invited a stranger‘s dulcet taste of reassurance. _Alone_ was the last description to be used. Redundant in the grand scale of a severed lizard’s tail. Even for a place as hermetic as one’s own Beach, ‘alone’ was hardly the staple that embeds deep into the banks of its quicksand. 

Any civility Higgs could muster to his bitter expression had vanished to a strand in this barren wasteland. Any trace of patience rivalled the concealed radiance of sun. What shines in its place is a sardonic chuckle. Weak in tone. Too defeated to challenge with any beat of defiance. Single is the strike of query, spiking ever deeper in intensity. A perfect circle of questions leaving answers out of bounds. Answers that, by nature of incomplete thought, deserved to be restricted access. 

Every word was like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness. But, then there lies the antimatter of contention. 

_Words were the clothes that thoughts wear._

“Stripped me bare without even touching me.”

The period. A strangely erotic blend of clinical and sensuous. 

  
  
“I’d call it kinky…”

The manifestation of amorphous entity is, at once, given a fleet and disinterested, scrutinising glance. 

“But, the tone just don’t sit right.”

Shooting the crystal orbs with a knowing glare.

“Not here.”

Gaze hooded, brow relaxed. 

“Not anywhere.”

  
Gluttonous quiet translates to incentive. A kick of stimulus needed to spur his perversion. 

“ _Well, sweetheart_ …” 

The aftertaste of sardonic teeth, more bitter than sweet. 

“You once asked me if I believed in God.” 

Honeyed voice muffled behind metallic barrier. 

“If you’ll pardon my blasphemy… I reckon authors to be deities in their own right.” A response that is ambiguous as it is arrogant. An indifferent yet courteous diversion. “But, you’d be hard-pressed to find a religious man in ‘I’.” 

The undead chorus belts a growling hiss. Sprinkles of dew spreading evenly along his cloak. An almost, very nearly, conscious dance of bullets streaming. Pauses in the deformed, analog hands. Intimate echoes of the unexpected...

“ _Would you kill a man?_ ”

Higgs takes visible confusion to this belated inquiry, contemplating the question thoughtfully with a sneaking glance to the cadaver adjacent, riddled through the torso with bullets engraved by his name, caught between the viscid web of sinking and floating. He tries to ignore what he witnessed moments after. To erase clean from his still innocent memory, a nightmare devouring dream. A sweeping, nebulous substance. Grey clouds racing above to deliver omen disguised as heavy rain. His conscience weighing just as heavily upon his shoulders. The line between dream and reality becoming indistinct. The rain was but a metaphor for his guilt. 

Or, so he thinks...

Amelie has yet to unmask her authoritative pretense. To assure Higgs that his actions up to this point were nothing more than coping tactics fabricated by the breadth of a troubled mind. 

But, no…

“ _Not_ _this one._ ”

He does well to deceive his nerves into a state of numbness. The inclement weather, the necrotising body, the muted oscillation of waves before them, blackened impossibly further by stalking tinge of sinister atmosphere. Despite the dread of it all expressing a tangible, if not inescapable, caress of something real, he feels the knees of fate kneeling by his side, reluctant to grip his gloved hand. To inch closer to his covered ear to soothe him with the toneless musings, the sinless pleadings of….

“ _A boy_.”

Now, it was Higgs’ turn to feign insouciance. What was man if not a boy redefined to a mean median of its mode? The sum parts of its immaturity. The muscle convulsing with false profundity. Far too obscure to say, but having voice to be said. To be dealt in deafening hand to the living and the dead. 

“Sacrifice is necessary for evolution.” 

To acknowledge the truth of another day would be one millennia closer to his escape. 

“In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.”

In the midst of grim scrutiny and thunderous applause, she smiles. Sounding pleased with his lethargy all the same. Since the beginning of their engaged time, her purpose had always been evident. She existed to consume and destroy. 

“ _You learn well, Higgs._ ” The betraying age of her smile falters a wrinkle before reaching her eyes. Synthetic corners bearing a taste of reluctance. 

“ _How hapless your formative years must have been…_ ”

Higgs grimaces, tempted to unscrew the bolts of his second face. Her guileless expression flutters from blind eyes. His frown and clenched jaw unrecognised. Static in tandem, the tension of a deity’s cry in the sky. 

“ _No child should have to endure what you have_.”

A broken record. 

Ancient; defunct. 

_Broken_...

“ _But, I’m afraid…”_

Of entropy. Commencing operation. Ocean blue succumbing to pitch black. Ascending from the briny depths, tar rising in strands, stretching towards cimmerian shade. The sun, a shy relic of a promising yesterday. And yet….

“ _I still haven’t made myself clear.”_

The last thing he sees. Permitted to see in suffocating absence, semblance of light a distant hover, signalling the wrest of lucid allusion from corporal conception. Before the final gasp, the gas mask lifts from clammy flesh.

Behind closed lids, the flickering layers of inverted rainbow deprive him of oxygen. A luster of dull rays in the span of drumming impatience. According to the primigenial dial, rest was just a fibrillator’s jest away from obliging the patient’s request.

_  
“ _ Higgs… _”_

_Three seconds…_

_“_ Higgs _?”_

_Two seconds…_

_“_ Higgs! **”**  
  


  
  


* * *

**_One._ **


	2. Sui Generis

* * *

In the preceding span of 336 hours, Timefall migrations had been cited through eyewitness reports as being “without foreseeable end”; precipitations evolving to a steady and unyielding cloudburst of oppressive intensity. While the benefits of chiralium harvesting conjured through numerous sightings of crystal deposits in multiplied fruition, the balancing force of restraint had yet to evince a countering penance for those brazen enough to venture far beyond networking limits, absent protective companion of a BB unit or Odradek. 

Progressing through the alps, unencumbered, proved Sisyphean as blizzards felt noticeably diffused from strand to strand, localities blurring to indistinction; mirages of The Promised Land; replete to exhaustion with tyrannical winds. Only a deity’s sadistic sleight of hand could stoke these prophetic gales of comeuppance; whiteouts, merciless and unforgiving. To the reverent missionary, even more damning in visibility. 

Alarmingly, one porter, lonesome in duty, could be vetted, via watchtower view, striping algid terrain of the Mountain Knot venue. His path illustrates with staunch determination but a destination of uncertainty lingers with the continuous trail of his tracking. It was difficult to ascertain a definable expression, concealed behind oxygen mask, any hint of breathless trepidation mistaken for that of the frigid, lashing air. 

Electrified plasma from the wheels of his trike trace clean across dense blankets of impenetrable snow. The engine bespoke imperium to those butterflies down on the fields and prairies. A few years, at most, had since vanished when the man once roamed above ground, endowed by purpose. It seemed only yesterday a woman whose voice put any Siren to shame had arrived to him in lyrical lullaby, facilitating the otherwise restless nights with a deceptive caress of quietus. 

As black concedes in giving way to grey, which proceeds as well to brighten the dregs of late afternoon, the petrol’s steady supply fuels his escape from these persecuting phantoms. One day soon, much to his chagrin and discomfort, he would eventually learn to accept them as imperishable. Soon enough, in present time, his reluctance to reject a gentle presence would inevitably be the weakness that tethers him, permanently. 

_To the Other Side._

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


As the eavesdropping, omnipresent narrator, a letter of resignation is sent to ‘The Other Side’. It was simple to surmise why humans were keen, if not weaned, on terminal damage, whether self-inflicted or dispersed in equal allocation. To ‘understand’ means to dissect and expose the raw essentials of everything that constitutes a whole. Thereby, the desire to deconstruct was directly proportional to any degree of purported unity. The less “complete” the person, place or thing, the less likely the baser urge for demolition may resurface. From speculated source of ancestry (i.e., the earliest known precursors acknowledged in the Anthropocene), one could deduce the prevalence of emotion on the pernicious spectrum, invariably so for abject anger, as existing not entirely void of motive. Impossible to simplify as baseless, hormonal, visceral. 

From the fisheye of _un_ immaculate conception, the consummate unity of gametes is infused with an absolute unit, the indispensable nutrient, of its ‘oneness’ in the sheltered quarantine of three trimesters. Oblivious to its inherent nature and subsequent maturity to inclination, it performs, to the single audience, an act of instinctive defiance. Desperate in asserting its claim to autonomy before a foot can stake its bootless print. 

Just as the circumzenithal arc defies the upright nature of a rainbow, the undeveloped gamete uses fear of the unknown as ammunition. If nothing can be seen, how can truth be applied? If it _can_ be observed, how might evidence be supplied to the blind? Samples of verity find themselves rejected in the amniotic fluid. Expelled posthaste by injection. Their benignant intrusion, impervious to entry. From inchoate cell to complete neonate, there is an obstinacy, a callow refusal to accept an alternate state of existence. 

That is to say, _a community_. 

Given timeless importance of order and placement, what was precisely unique about ‘one’? A word of ironic duplicity. An entire tome of history encapsulated to a single, condensed fleck of dust drifting through eternity. An iota of mass that appears and feels patently forgettable with one swift flick of two fingers yet, when irritating the eye with persistence, reveals, by a family’s count, the arcane. _The open secret._ Applying perspective to the mundane allows the following submission to uncontrollable blinking to be reflected as seizure. The seizure to be refracted as clairvoyance. An adaptive eccentricity. Adopted by the Ha and nurtured by the Ka. 

When the assailants of insight accost him at midnight, the clinical ceiling of his hermetic enclosure paints an incubus of abstract art. Streaming from the ventilation chambers were strands of visible monoxide that signaled an alarming displacement. Each particle was suffused by negative charge. Tinnitus in his ear, the dissatisfied hissing of tortured souls. 

Truth be told, Higgs missed the fun of Edge Knot being his own personal playground. Rarely, if ever, does he give nostalgia a maternity ward. With his lively, albeit lonely, stake to population, there was the supposition of him doing the desolate region a favour. He’s self-aware enough to know that his ego is given voice to this presumption. Despite his best efforts, the condition couldn’t be helped. 

No one but him could offer the love he craves. The love he deserves. Humans were designed to be inclined towards the self. Self-reflection. Self-preservation. Self-actualisation. Survival tactics that initially concern the self. 

One of the few, respectfully unproven, hypotheses surviving in ubiquitous accord is that all living organisms are born and bred as _one_ entity. Whilst assisted in procreation by conjunctive aid of progenitor, it may yet be interpreted that the offspring ultimately exists independent of its creator, rejecting the appended viscera of mother and child via traditional, if not incontestably unique, conduit of umbilical cord. Thereby, the zygote, metamorphosed to embryo, segued to foetus, resides within its carrier, alone, but not quite _lonely_. As evidenced by the craters, Lockne and Målingen, even if a certain pair of identical twins were coexisting, feeding, fostered in similarity. All the same, their DNA, combined, are intertwined. Regarded as whole. Considered under one role. 

_“Have you considered the possibility that we may be the only living creatures capable of expressing physical emotion? Yes, hyenas laugh. Primates, by common ancestry, can frown and smile. But, humans? Stoic or not, unless you’re deformed beyond recognition, we wear our emotions like diaphanous lingerie. Revealing, but not always erotic. When it is, the face goes defective. Can barely maintain the order of its primitive functions.”_

Effectively, this would be the first time Higgs would ever engage in, by his naive perception, genuine conversation. How could he have retained his stolid features? Not when her smile had been so honest and warm. His guileless reception, _young and dumb_. The perfect equation for indoctrination. Naturally, this was the image she preyed upon. To facilitate her desire for incompletion, it was the wounded, puerile boy her target would bullseye. 

_“You’re the only one who can make things right, Higgs. For me. For us. Imagine the clouds parting once more, just for you and I. I can see it, Higgs. When the rain finally dies. The day is sooner than you think. Are you strong enough to believe? Would you trust me enough to reclaim the wings we lost? To regain hope and fly? Together. Ruling the skies...”_

  
  


* * *

**_As one._ **


	3. Portage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if word density gets a bit inconsistent or convoluted. The editing process is a sadist’s wet dream for a masochistic perfectionist like me when the problem is having a multitude of directions to choose from but needing to condense and prioritise for the sake of clarity and cohesion...

* * *

‘One’ may well be accepted as the prevailing default of basic, human desires. To be alone but not lonely within the bounds of vital containment. Having recourse to the remarkable continuity of a microcosm called ‘society’, which, in itself, fosters communes, nations, self-sabotage of overpopulation. ‘Strength in numbers’, as the adage and undisclosed motto goes. More than one in sum total. Numbers in plural shall counter the perceived threat of retaliation. Suffice to say, a feared reception of single, segregated unions. The oxymoron of absolute autonomy.

One man who questions authority. One god who denies the socialism of pagans. One ghost of pride and free will to roam the Earth. To renounce the complacent god with man’s resounding roar of misplaced dominance. For all our endeavours in seeking harmony through the same conjoined effort, promoting replicated cells of collectivism, bodies may often yet be disposed to forcible removal, id est surgical extraction of this ambition as malign tumor. Since the advent of religion, a point of contention had arose in which it was deemed that the god was undeserving of their throne. Even more dubious in reward was that of their veneration. 

They, themselves, believe only in one. The heightening of awareness to one individual being. Only one can fill capacity. The god is hence conceived as Janus. If only one being can be assessed on the basis of character, the shared existence of humanity is made redundant in the strata of ultimate judgment. Senseless violence is all to ensue from the baseless endeavour of evaluating a soul’s integrity. Integrity that is purposed to compete with countless other hapless souls, deluged by the pressurised decree of brisk waters. As such, there was hardly a chance to claim redemption from the brief scrutiny of shallow reflections. 

Only the self-proclaimed  _ Homo demens _ could enact such a risible effort of exchange without suffering consequence. Exchanging the cursory worth of their souls to receive a fleeting yet gratifying promise of freedom. Yet, to value a soul is to propose a pre-existing inscription of the soul as something to be acknowledged. Something deserving of validation. Something proven in presence for consideration.

The Homo demens (see “mad man”) philosophy dictates nihilism as the remedy for life’s adversity. To the casual observer, warped by conformity, the prospect of separatism was a form of the aforementioned retaliation. Anyone opposed to the system was dissident; traitorous. A veritable enemy of life itself. If imprisonment wasn’t enough to discipline the rogue anew, execution was, just as well, a viable solution. Any clemency, né sympathy, was out of the question. Pain was the method. Blood was the currency. 

In effect, how mad could the desire for independence be? An incorrigible addiction to anarchy. To be governed by the self, far removed from the toxic vapours of external influence. 

Regrettable to say, any definitive answer would necessitate centuries of bloodletting research, with untold sacrifices abounding at the forefront. Until obsolescence by contraction lays insurmountable plaint, speculation will continue to worry away at the gnashing teeth. Notwithstanding, the quota for metaphysical introspection has since exhausted its invitation. Leave the perpetuity of self-examination to those overambitious eggheads running circles along their hamster wheels. 

At present, Higgs could think of one, in particular, who necessitated several, or more, encephalic resections. Indeed, it was queer to be stood here, at the eccentric scientist’s behest, stood before a panoramic display of holographic flames, which did little to emulate the thermal energy needed to shrug off that miserable hug of tundra just outside his opulent fortress. Heartman had specifically requested that Higgs arrive under guise of his alias, ‘Peter Englert’. Naturally, this unsettled Higgs to no apparent end. 

The lovable, lionhearted nerd had obviously been directing one-third of his 21 minutes of conscious research to Higgs’ trail of carbon footprint. Given the scientist’s insufferably benign demeanour, it proved difficult to prescribe distrust or contempt. Nevertheless, his initial suspicions of unusual intent led Higgs to believe that some attempt at blackmail or stratagem was effected to combat the plotted seed of his antagonism. It was no secret the two were at odds. Defending two sides of the same coin to emphasise this innate yet absurd division.   
  


Be that as it may, any initial reservations Higgs possessed were since laid to rest and retired through dormancy. After all, it couldn’t be denied that the man was impossible to dislike. Or even refuse, for that matter. It also didn’t hurt that this dubious adversary, in particular, was arguably Bridges’ most reputed agent of espionage in the realm of dispensing intel.    
  
  
Which is more or less how Higgs finds himself assigned by the nearest temp agency for a part-time position at Domino’s. 

  
Accessing the terminal and inputting command for delivery, Higgs is briefly transported back to a similar yet, evidently, more precarious scenario. Banking on the structural integrity of his putrescible vehicle, already beginning to endure symptoms of the weather’s accelerated passage of time, he uses his mind instead to suffer this transient trip to oblivion. The oblivious nature of that endearing idiot of a Porter was amusing as it was concerning. Higgs hadn’t thought himself at all inconspicuous. Yet, somehow, he still consulted Fragile, who, in return, enables his nescience by feigning the surprise he so innocently conveys. 

Higgs doesn’t bother offering a pint of sympathy considering the bastard never even completed his order with that bottle of Perrier-Jouët….

_ Surely, that was intentional.  _

Here’s to hoping Heartman found cryptobiotes just as appetising as a certain French, dominatrix expat. 


	4. Azzip Yreviled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with the current progression of this, but, as it happens, a large percentage of my (creative) writing technique tends to adopt an auteurist effect of reflecting my own personality. Disjointed. Philosophical. Dispassionate. Defective...

* * *

When Heartman greets Higgs in the casual, inviting manner of a bosom friend, all British magnetism and congenial smile, it still manages to set the former separatist on edge. Despite the blunt, saccharine sincerity of the boffin’s disposition, Higgs remains to be enslaved by the festering influence of his formative years, incapable of fully digesting this unvarnished taste of friendly relation.

Perhaps, in physicality, they might be considered as intimate as brothers, forcibly separated at birth. Without the bulk of mask, cloak and military apparel, his tall, lean physique was relative to his host. Far less imposing when dressed as a delivery boy running fool’s errands. 

“Ah. Higgs. I see punctuality hasn’t been abandoned.” As if pressed for time, Heartman offers a whiplash of tepid glance to the twin boxes nestled snug betwixt lissome arms. “If you wouldn’t mind setting those on the couch and taking a seat next to our guest?” Ever the query punctuating his verbosity. Unfortunate for a man of such brilliance, so passionate and committed in spirit, to be pestered by insecurity. At the moment, Heartman was occupied at the projector, monochrome flashes of motion picture waltzing across his spectacles, invested by the sequence of visuals and intermittent stills of text regarded as vintage reminders from the pre-Stranding epoch. 

In approximately seven minutes, he’d be comatose to the only two eyewitnesses, either comfortably or uncomfortably, whereas any other would be none the wiser to a paterfamilias relaxing at home in the early evening hours, gallivanting to the Land of Nod, desperately searching for some generous grasp of relief and permanence from the woes of waking hours. 

Above all, his bleak adventures were adamant and decisive in direction. An incendiary device beneath the oxidising hood that spurs its rusting skeleton towards a clement, resuscitating embrace of shared quietus. Notwithstanding the sight of him upon informal entry, fully dressed and groomed; donning a peculiar apparatus wrapped about his torso. It would be easy to deduce him as little more than one tireless cog providing unalloyed energy to a perpetuated engine. 

In fact, the truth couldn’t have been more sutured in correction. 

Whilst reviving the animus to redirect his attention, Heartman performs a complete and undivided rotation. With every moderated blink, there was yet a trace of melancholy embedded in the roots of each follicle, tear ducts finding egress along either cheek, glinting faint with thin streaks of moisture. Easily mistaken for sentiment, but nothing more than a symptom of contact from the periodic table’s most elusive addition. Scarcely anything of express concern with the atoning impression of interior design. Organically, a heartwarming abode that sufficed for the owner’s ache of cardiac vacancy. Gentle, understated hues of red and blue to restore the ambience of ventricles and aortas.

  
~~Accordingly, Higgs’ only complaint for furniture arrangement was the peculiar lack of love seats.~~

In supplying the room with incense of amorous perfume, there was also _her_. 

Barring a few salient yet trivial discrepancies in complexion, Higgs might have been mildly intrigued to discover his maven ally sheltering an estranged sister. Of course, there was no logical reason for why that couldn’t have been possible. Except biologically….

A pint-sized stein of caramel, infused with blood. The colour scheme of crimson-indigo lighting complementing its ethnic, indigenous tone. The silk, black curtain of waves draping from her skull assisted in the introduction of her asocial indifference, unacknowledging of Higgs’ looming shadow intruding upon the angled contour of her own. Not a twitch of head nor any warm or curious motion of welcoming. Rotund spectacles contrast in harmony with the squared construct of anatomy textbook her button-nose was pointed towards. 

“I hesitate to say her name.” Heartman’s apologetic beat. _Respectfully complying to my dear friend’s privation of social finesse._ “When privacy begins to fail, secrecy graduates in its stead. Matured to novelty, in a manner of speaking.”Heartman shares a knowing glance with the ‘novelty’ in question. “For now, you might consider her…” Drifting off, uncertain. “My apprentice…” A complimentary pause. “Née assistant.”

As expected, Higgs exasperates at this proxy of identity, mildly annoyed by the excessive verbiage needed to explain this miniature elephant in the room. A domesticated pet from whom his suspicion of rabid regression was furthered by the ‘mysterious third’ being donned in distinctly tailored Terrorist uniform. Minus the absence of a few proprietary accessories, he’d be able to recognise that custom stitching from a Tar Belt’s distance in diameter.

That is to say, Higgs wasn’t at all persuaded by this protection of personage. Curiously, it isn’t the desiccated remainder of throbbing gristle he hums leeriness. Rather, this… ‘Apprentice, née Assistant’. It’s by them from which a modest grist of engorged aplomb, scilicet, surge of smugness, eases a sultry, if not deceptive, proxy of welcome deep into his chest. The critical condition of operation from which reality steeps a dim, dizzying descent to fever dream. His steady, hooded gaze weighs heavy upon his couchmate’s petite form. His proprietary Bridges cap had been removed, leaving a mildly disheveled head and, unbeknownst to him, a few minor, yet no less vexing, smudges to his, quite literally, formulaic brow replacement, penned by eyeliner. 

The effortless intensity of his stare is laden with dissective scrutiny and it was needless to say just how pleased he was to witness her thoughts squirm beneath the cranium. Thoughts he no doubt conceived in a state of entropy. Did she recognise him behind the artifice of pyrite? All that he boasts himself in supporting? Or was she just the bookish, reserved type, unmoved and immune to the blague of political ideology? Summarily redefining his gimcrack ‘purpose’ of intrigue to an atrophied muscle of futility.  
  


Even if she _were_ a spitting image of Heartman in demeanour, her cosmetic appearance suggested otherwise, if not the keen reduction in extraversion. By physicality alone, he estimated the mousy bluestocking to be in the 21-24 bracket, at minimum. Be that as it may, she _looked_ barely legal, but just weathered enough to betray the baby face. 

“Oh, honey, I don’t bite.” His lopsided grin does little to put her mind at ease. Or attract her attention, for that matter. There was yet a crooked, wolfish tint to his perfectly aligned teeth. ”Frankly, I’m offended you’d even think such a thing.”

Idiotic and brash though he thinks of those introductory remarks, Higgs delights in her reticent apathy as a challenge to be conquered, in the safety of unspoken thought. The stretch of his predatory grin can scarcely be contained as he allows it to widen ever so slightly with every agonising stretch of tedious second, lips pulling against the creases of piercing blue and bruised mascara. Initially, a confused display of inorganic chemistry. Especially so now for the self-effacing prey from which 1,000 calories of cryptodiabetes was the only (physical) obstacle dividing them. 

Still, there was something amiss….

Higgs suddenly narrows his eyes to a weakly daggered glare of invasive study, cheek muscles relaxing in defeat. After a few ticking moments of amused deliberation, he’s obliged to suppress a watery chuckle, minuscule yet no less untamed, at what he is thought to be rewarded with. She appeared to be meticulous in her performance of behaviour but it required someone as persistently observant as a fanatic creeper or unethical scientist to seize the elusive essence of its birth and subsequent migration. 

Questionable though it was in credibility, Higgs would staunchly declare to be redolent of either breed. 

Ostensibly, a man enamoured by a potential suitor. Rather, less kindly, a carnivorous yet civilised cat, browsing the wares of a grocer that specialises in only the most cowardly capture of blind mice. 

Only one, especial, is enough to quell his appetite. Enough, instead, to whet the blade of his desire with the simple yet effective ploy of a chase. 

Little did she know, it was not him who would be pursuing. In this silly Porter costume, he’s aware he probably appears more creepy than anything. Mansplaining, arms splayed about the couch’s vertebrae, unyielding gaze still trained uneasily on the girl who would rather have divorced concentration restored to the silent film airing on the large screen before them, lowered in volume to accommodate a man napping on a chaise with guests present, casually in the throes of flatlining….

God forbid he were ever nominated as a god of time. To add insult to injury, the Egyptian title for that timeless deity was received a misfortune of beginning. If the name, ‘Huh’ was any reason to lament the despondency of bringing yet another cursed child into this world of cruelty and corruption. With only one minute remaining in the realm of torturous introductions, fortunately, it was plain to see she was perceptive. Perhaps even in dangerous excess, if memory and previous encounters served well. But, one that nevertheless translated as innocuous. In fact, he would gamble to profess that her voluntary pact with silence was a toasty welcome he was sure he’d never witness again after years of adapting to and accepting the normalcy conditioned from boisterous training camps, as well as that of its equally raucous community of fledgling insurgents. 

But, that was then. And this is now. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all the passenger beside. He’d be damned to admit how much of a troglodyte he appeared to be, compared to her. Risibly akin to an allegory of the gormless jock harassing the cute librarian, if for no other incentive beyond being disinclined to give him the time of day. Because she was unaffected by his stilted charm. Because his pride was an empty, fragile phial of gluttony, secretly ravenous for any fill that would satisfy the void of attention. It was times like these in which even _he_ marvels at his capacity for discipline and restraint. It was often important to remind himself that times long past were times well learned in avoiding certain behavioural patterns.   
  


* * *

“Interesting choice in tattoo.” She speaks. Finally. Suddenly. His expectation, his intuition, instantaneously shattered. Eerily, the act of her hoarse, untrained voice penetrating the tension at the precise moment of Heartman’s conscious return seemed almost to connect them in some nebulous exchange. As if their circadian rhythm were just a BB’s cord away from synchronisation.

Annoying though it may be in its arbitrary touch, Higgs struggles in averting the disappointment to arise from that notion, if it happened to bear any truth. Essentially, this begs the question of his uncharacteristic stream of consciousness. Was he _already_ developing some latent attraction to this meek little girl? By the declaration of jeering alexithymia, ‘attraction’ may have been idealistic. Maybe hormones was the culprit....

Come what may, his invincible compulsion to bombastic literature could, at the very least, appreciate the young woman as a ‘classic beauty’. Certainly not ‘exotic’, from which evolution of etymology produced yet another word tainted by the bane of interpretation. One, nevertheless, that Higgs could admire in a manner absent carnality. The concept was subjective, to be sure. Whether sincere or manipulative in his confession, he, himself, was hardly fond of emphasising physical attributes, if only as a tool to exploit the weak and vapid. 

Awkward dealings in the wares of human interaction could easily be mistaken for intimidation to someone as impudent as Peter Englert. Fortunately, Higgs wasn’t defined by the histrionic characters he’s given to animating. 

“Never would have thought someone of your ilk would bear sentiment enough to ink their skin with a physics equation. Let alone replacing their forehead whiskers with it.”

  
  
In spite of this explicit tone of wit sniping a laser directly across his forehead, she’s determined to disregard him. Retinas scanning firm adherence to crisp, visceral illustrations denoted by Latin text. Indeed, there were more fascinating images of human anatomy to surgically manipulate at her leisure. Namely, the thewy arrangement of fibrils comprising one of two of the body’s most vital organs. Resembling a taut entanglement of puppet strings to the droll, poetic eye, waiting patiently to be unraveled and attached to impressionable candidates. In opposition to the tough, binding threads of restrictive circulation they allude to the optimist and jailor alike. 

The dissonant melody of her dry delivery results in Higgs wrinkling his mouth in wry jest when Heartman offers a halfhearted laugh. And what rational irony it was for the two to be in mutual accord concerning disastrous consequence of adapting to ‘human’ language. It was almost as if they truly were synthetic substitutes failing miserably at communicating naturally. 

By and large, a betraying hint of awkward social cues on behalf of the speaker. Submitting to this unwinding spool of disorientation, Higgs relents in effort to carve a genuine smile. Whatever hormonal part of him manifested somehow _wanted_ to see this stranger produce a smile of equal measure. Judging by the external apathy of her demeanour, he wouldn’t be surprised if those cheek muscles were on the verge of collapse if too much effort was exerted. Because of this unnatural reaction, the gradual settling of wrongness that depresses the cushion beneath stiffens his limbs with septic needles of awareness.

_Pay attention._

His inner voice berates.

_Look around you._

Omnipotent.

_Remember why you’re here._

Unfeeling. 

**_You’re delusional._ **

* * *

Disbelief seasons the air. Seizes his breath with mephitic revelation. He could always estimate how long, but never _how long_ his time was measured on that barren stretch of sea and land, languishing across anemic black sands, tattered strands of sanity trailing behind, a limp, etiolated silhouette chasing him from edge to edge. 

Still, the ego dictates the conscience of his Ha. Absurdly, he ponders his nameless predicament over a nibbled square of cheesy bread topped with synthetic meat and alien bacteria. The crust was overbaked. The cheese, crusted to flakes. Ironically, the only fresh seal of approval being those sentient, pink packing peanuts. Higgs hides his grimace with an unconvincing chew.  
  
  


* * *

Since a certain _Strand_ forced a devastating exchange of farewells between them, the nature of this strange meeting with one of Bridges’ most reputed scientists affirms that his actions thus far have been dysfunctional. His behaviour, unlearned. His dormant desire for touch, emaciated. Even more so than before.

All because of one sibylline outline of woman. Unfathomable in transit, her name changes with each passing wind but her purpose remains the same. The Lazarus that resurrected him from eternity, after having been accused as the jailor to sentence him. To have a soul rejected from both Heaven and Hell. A sadistic angel of Death who preferred to relish this soul and its pigeonholed declivity through purgatory, assigned to identify with neither the living nor the dead. If ghosts from the past were led to legion, _she_ would be the spectral queen. Unquestioned. Untethered. Undefeated.

A phantom, dressed in mourning, enabling his bitter resentment, weeping rivers of blood, sweat and tears to those destined for doom. Alas, that is where the rub was afflicted by incurable rash. Her tears were sacrificed to fill the ocean. The souls with peace. Yet, for all her lamentation, there was still the sinful hypocrisy of how she wept for all condemned.

  
All...  
  
  


_**Except him.** _


	5. Copenhagen Interpretation Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lordt, this chapter was absolute torture to abridge and finalise. If you notice any seeming breaks in flow or a fragmented sense of completion, it’s intentional lol

* * *

Just when he thought himself liberated from the bane of being questioned. 

“Higgs?” 

He. The subject in question, lost in a thicket of cognitive dissonance, occupying three-fourths of the couch, looking every bit of personified greed with grease-coated lips and teeth, glances over to the savant, begrudgingly. 

Rule #1 (from the desk of Peter Englert): Never interrupt a man enraptured by sacred practice of ingestion; elementally, when that ingested treasure is the Italian’s magnum opus of culinary cuisine. 

“A moment, please.” An earnest inquiry, emphasised by Heartman beckoning him with peculiar, unlearned tilt of head. Equally lacking in social grace as his cerebral one-night stand. 

Yet troubling to ascertain where humour could be placed, if at all welcome. Instead, it is here where self-awareness gives stage to duplicity. A derailed track of penetrative thought, parting the curtains of interlude. 

Act I: The operatic force of cynicism inures polarity in the third party. A symbol of parlous history to haunt _him_ with the terrible task of extinction. Synonymous to ‘opportunity’. Purportedly, stagnation was the silent enemy of this room. Diffused in each particle of chiral sand from the hourglass. No further deliberation was needed. Higgs is more than eager to reclaim a tangible sense of his immediate surroundings. 

It was irrational, at best. Paranoid, at worst, for him to issue a plaint against that feminal enigma. Without his powers of correspondence to The Other Side, the twin devils of pessimism and nihilism, perched upon his shoulders, were posthaste in repatriation. Punctuated by the near reality of degrading uniform reminding him of his inherent mundanity, it became terribly easy to lose sight of ambition. Any ration of animus he was dogged in preserving was beginning to be cast to the dogs themselves. Falsely convicting, convincing himself it was likely for the best to euthanise those sickly green aspirations. Shoot for the stars and a meteor shower was sure to be provoked to blinding ire. 

The dinosaurs could certainly attest to that…

Turning just in time to see her quickly averting her gaze, his surprise is brief. His curiosity, enkindled once more after a transient period of deflagration. There was no denying the hint of intrigue she’s furrowed beneath the brow, pretending not to have given herself away as baited prey, fighting, with arrant futility, the primitive urge of her own curious nature. Thereby, his inflexible pride was renascent. Tattooed with permanence in every neuron. A veritable sin on his conscience. By that very fact or act, irredeemable. 

What a comedy for his ‘saviour’ to be the Doubting Thomas who renounces God in favour of a “Big Bang”. Such a puerile baptism for the universe. And yet…

Risky though it may be, Heartman was his best bet at finding Amelie, without the breakneck viper of surveillance threatening to sabotage his plans. A feat that occasionally disrupted his sleep deficiency, giving the illusion of looming futility. 

First, she condemns him to indefinite solitude, tormented by the grating sounds of intrusive thoughts raging against mellow tides, attempting to drown in vain beneath tranquil oscillations. Ineffectively, to end it all. 

The serenity of such ambience existed only to ridicule. Smoke and mirrors of ethereal horizon, enhanced by rose-tinted artifice. The distant, unreachable likeness of Earth, a fraying twine for his piteous whine. Frail, chronometric hands buried beneath the grain, searching and clawing through the burrowed passages of time. Among those devious, deceptive hours, moments arose in which he _craved_ the rotting flesh of body as adhered to the soul. 

Enduring the agony of material decomposition would have been a preferred alternative to the gradual deterioration of mind. Arguably, the one thing he could still manage to assert control. Suicide was neither a voluntary choice or advisable option. What no theorist proposes about the afterlife is that consciousness remains continuous. Repatriate or not, even in death, the eldritch invasion of brooding would put any BT, or, by that measure, any Extinction Entity, to shame. Perhaps then, there was only the serpentine nature of self to blame for his impatience. 

When Heartman tells him that it’s “far too early for syllogisms”, an awkward pause of consternation crepitates between two unlikely acquaintances. Higgs arches an arithmetic brow, bemused. Likewise, Heartman utters a strained chuckle, taking three ghostly taps against the noggin to “calibrate” his scattered thoughts, expectorating the soured nerves from his throat. Gaining momentum upon a spark of continuity. 

“I believe there might be consolation in knowing that you’ll be among the first informed about my latest research.” Coarse fingers twining and fiddling. Zany grazes of chirality. Sparks of disparity tracing gently along the wrinkles and intricate lines. 

What a silly suspicion. 

As if there was something to be nervous about…. 

“Amelie is experiencing a quandary of unexampled proportion. Her remote presence on The Beach has segued. To what state, we’ve yet to ascertain. Not quite a cause for worry as this density of isolation has also stimulated kinetic energy in our pursuit of understanding.” A slight wrinkle of the brow, projecting discontent. “By academic appraisal, such abductive reasoning would hardly qualify as acceptable, given our limited knowledge...” 

Calibrating. Collating. Decorticating. 

“All the same, it is one that must be addressed in symmetry, whilst relating to the inextricable network of human cognition. Namely, that of its anima, and wholeness thereof. Renouncing individual thoughtform in favour of collective.”

  
Another pause. Lengthier than the last. Higgs inhales. The span of an eon expelled from his nostrils. Exhales in a remarkable breath of tolerance. If he wanted to revisit a lecture hall (suffice to say, orgasmic release would sooner come from the sound of nails on chalkboard), all it took was one desktop shortcut to Khan Academy.  
  


“Her behaviour and occupational patterns have been irregular, as of late.” 

Higgs could feel the gravity of this strange interaction intensifying unbearably. Helpless to the intrinsic sixth sense of being slighted in some covert fashion. 

His intelligence was nothing to scoff at. Alias notwithstanding, Higgs Monaghan was astute. Erudite. Deadly sharp. Machiavelli’s bastard son. _‘Smart as a whip’_ , Daddy said. The one thing that old curmudgeon couldn’t rebuke him for. In the same noxious breath, still offensive enough to be beaten for…

He could see in the vitreous humour, hear through the warbling subtext, that Heartman was not the most expressive creature in countenance and speech alone. It was by visual cues and body language where zest and fluency thrived. All the more fuel for a conflicted conscience on either side. Near impossible to decipher his torturous sequence of coding. 

How could he instill such conviction in a fool’s enterprise? Why would he ascend to such extreme lengths, compounding Sisyphean leaps, to save that which was beyond saving? Tragedy, incarnate. The seed of appellation implanted by a committee of psychoanalysts. This was Heartman’s internal malfunction. Surpassing that of the atrophied memento, presiding as a ghost of tenderness. An incessant, beating reminder of every pulse he must sacrifice to keep the blood of fellow feeling young and alive. 

“It’s important to note that the fruits of my labour persist in relative infancy. Albeit minor in scale, recent ventures through the metaphysical verse have been met with promising results. At the very least, presenting feasible data that may yet lead us closer to something tangible.”

Higgs listens intently, assiduous in digesting the information presented. However, there was yet one portion of the dish that was delayed in processing...

“Fret not, my dubious friend.” Aptly responding to Higgs’ unvoiced trepidation. ”Rest assured, any accomplice of mine can be trusted in matters of confidentiality. Although, it’s understandable if you’d prefer the security of a more private atmosphere. In retrospect, I should advise against that. In spite of secrecy and withheld identity, the importance of her role cannot be dismissed as inconvenience.” 

Cue Higgs sneaking a shady side glance to gauge affront or any sign of reaction that was mute to manifest. A pair of camouflage earbuds were inserted; alas, her vacant, loafing gaze was not telling of one well-versed in espionage. Party affiliation? Zero to none. Summary execution: a fellow frondeur by the patter of tiny feet.

“Well, aren’t you just the Bonnie to my Clyde.” A jesting remark to The Beach Scientist, blanched and mindless. 

For all his hospitality, Higgs can see the mask of his “alliance” beginning to crumble. There was yet a betrayal of reservation in Heartman’s weary stance and pensive eye. 

He could hardly blame the guy. Even decades of acclimation would never be sufficient preparation for three minute intervals of literal heart-stopping simulations. Seemingly, to no apparent end…

“Aiding and abetting _one_ Terrorist would have poor Bridget clutching pearls. Bless her soul.” Higgs traces a cross against his chest, closing his eyes briefly in mock deference. Lowers his voice. “But, _two_ Terrorists?” Whistles. “You just might make a jealous man of me yet.”

For a brief spell, Heartman dispels his fallible pneuma by offering his unlikely partner a neutral smile. Without the anchors of wife and child, second thoughts about his continued survival, his diluted efforts to the cause of reconstruction and revival of connectivity, were no less present in frequency. 

“Yes, well… in any event, our R&D unit have been exceptionally fervent in appraising the newfound effects of chiralium immediately following Timefall dissipation. Amid their studies, what they have discovered is rather groundbreaking. It would seem chiral crystals, and deposits thereof, can no longer be considered a health hazard. Indeed, it would appear radiation levels have diminished to such an extent that the average person may now endeavour to comfortably engage with the element absent fear of overexposure or contamination.”

Corroboration at its finest. Heartman wasn’t an integral component of Bridges for the sake of his health. Barring the zaniness of naming tradition, he was a special addition, well-known for making connections. Relating the unrelated. Webbing a network of syzygy with the instrument of relativity. For the sake of his own well-being, Higgs couldn’t dismiss his claim entirely if it meant being fully immersed above ground, unencumbered by protection. As it happened, Higgs was also not the most forbearing of men. 

Analogising himself to a Chernobyl engineer during the precise moment of explosion would rank him in a league more nefarious than that of Anatoly Dyatlov. For that matter, the entirety of the KGB would pale in comparison to his reign of unblushing destruction. There would be no affidavit concluding the event as an accident. 

Of course, there was also the matter of the general public to satisfy his yearning for disorder. Ardently shifting focus from the spreading hazard of radiation to that instead of its anomalous “enhancements”. 

_‘The Boy with the Golden Mask’_ , they’d call him. A freakish mutation, borne from the neoplasm of nuclear physics. 

Every night, he performs for the ravenous audience. This pitiful selection of victims made slaves to pernicious isotopes, searching for the glint of his golden face, the flint of his platinum stare, as refractive remedy. Until he awakes in a cold sweat, cot depressing from surplus weight. That familiar, feminine face appearing beneath the shelf, near Fragile’s name, a saintly harbinger from The Seam, dividing reality and dream. 

“How does this pertain to Amelie, you ask…” 

With a few practiced motions of input to his cufflink, Heartman conjures a chiralgram image, illuminating their faces in a deep shade of azul that once posed a deathless absence from the rainbow. Illustrated in opulent, ineluctable detail was a pristine Amelie. After all the time Higgs has spent basking in her masked glory, nothing could go unnoticed. Initially, he was unsure of why he was being introduced to this pale imitation, dressed in pallid silver to cauterise the bleeding red. 

Spotting the difference between before and after the betrayal was impossible to miss. There was something distinctly off about her appearance. Her quipu was impaired, stretched at every strand, as if tugged at and misused by one handsy newborn. Beyond the stainless composition of her celestial being, she looked… _astray_. The once enticing sway of her gait, now ungainly — uncertain. Unbridled fear outlines each iris in the darkest hue of Cimmerian. The pupil between was yet void of expression.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Higgs was unclear in determining exactly _what_ he was looking at. Furthermore, if the image presented was nothing more than some gratuitous proof of ignis fatuus. A gimcrack tool to divert and deceive. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Little Miss America is lost.” 

Any other circumstance and Higgs would be verklempt with laughter. Unfortunately, it was clear to see her otherwise anomalous behaviour translated with sincerity. The superlunary harbinger of rack and ruin was toddling the land as if suddenly, irrevocably, born again. The innocent babe that finds itself crawling alone in a world unknown. 

“Precisely.” 

It should stand to reason that Heartman was unperturbed by this aberrant sight. 

“If you’d prefer a more comprehensive analysis of this phenomenon, I’d advise consulting Deadman. As it stands, our collaborative efforts in observing her behaviour have led us to deduce an unprecedented shift from what we once knew about The Beach.”

Heartman directs Higgs’ attention to the area surrounding Amelie’s disembodied figure. 

“See how the environment appears distinct from the ‘beach’ setting we’ve been accustomed to?”

Higgs watches with diligent intrigue. A cycle of inexplicable emotions coursing through his head at what was being witnessed. It was far too early to feed the belly of speculation, but if his intuition was correct, perhaps her clueless reception was meant to be interpreted as a warning.

“ _Disoriented_ would be a more accurate depiction. If our combined conjecture bears any mass, I would venture to say that whatever has happened to Amelie has never happened before. If so, and only _if_ her reaction to this foreign landscape is not feigned, then we may very well be anticipating a largely undesirable outcome.”

“And just like that, you believe her…” Higgs fleers. Not an ounce of hesitation in his delivery. The embodiment of a shedding serpent’s quickness. “You fall for her lies.”

How could he be so calm and composed? Amelie just so happens to be displaced from the one medium that tethers all souls indiscriminately and not a crease of urgency furrows his brow? Not a single force of gravity mars his eye with hollowed pressure? It was almost as if the laws of the natural world were given to inversion. States of matter, forces of nature, political and philosophical ideologies. All coalescing to indistinction. Once reverted to their original identities, chaos becomes edict. A teeming populace of hapless hope submitting to Weltschmerz. 

“I understand your suspicion but I’m afraid there are no facetious tales to be found. Which is why we must be vigilant in how we approach this area of instability.” Heartman attempts to reassure him, to no avail. 

“Just tell me where she is.” His voice adopts a sterner tone than intended. Civility was beginning to grant passage to indignation. “What is this ‘foreign landscape’? Riddles before bed ain’t exactly my cup of tea.”

Heartman sighs defeatedly. “The answer is closer than you realise.” To further deepen the recess of his point, Heartman deactivates his cufflink, dim lights restoring pedestrian ambience. Slivers of silver radiance peering through visible corners of glass, dissolving the silver screen. A gibbous moon, covert above sinister streetlights, obscured by a haze of nebulous welkin. Callous and uninvolved towards the venal vog of concrete jungle, replete with heavy rains of endangerment. 

“Do any of you geniuses know how to craft a straightforward response? Isn’t that included in the job description?” A peal of venomous levity tickles the seam of his lips with an odious hint of bitterness. His grin is elastic, bound by rubber. The extension of his laugh lines to the manic confinement of his eyes, constricting deadly nerves of equanimity. “Riddle me this: if her traipsing about in exotic territory, _or_ , as we say in layman’s terms, her being not where she’s supposed to be, then… _where the hell is she_?”

He was so close. Could almost taste the synthetic, inhuman essence of her perspired flesh. One striped trail of tongue against that slender cheek to mark his possession. A leather handprint debossed on the other, to make a lasting impression. 

_So close_. Yet so far. His patience was being tested. His pique, obliged to be pacified a whit longer. _Like a fucking Bridge Baby._ His amusement, resoundly humourless. 

Nevertheless, ‘twas easier said than done when there was not one, but _two_ mice in the room. Giving one the benefit of the doubt, he was sure, if Chinese tradition still held devotion, that this year was incidentally dedicated to the rat.

Incidentally, they _both_ reeked something mighty fierce.

“Unhelpful though it may be, _trust me_ when I say that I empathise with your frustrations. However, at the risk of eschewing diplomacy, you _must_ understand that this… state of affairs, this... _mare’s nest,_ is larger than you could ever imagine. ”

“ _Trust you?_ ” Higgs fleers. Presenting himself, a snake unshed. The powerless, negated God particle. A modest teaspoon of discretion -- the only formidable weapon at his disposal. Thinning away to a phantom thread with every ticking second of provocation.

“So, where’s Bridges III then?” His beard tingles with static. “After all that effort to send Uncle Sam across the country. To reunite these bumfuck citizens. And all it took was one half-assed hug to end our 90-day free trial from the reaper.” 

_Three minutes until cardiac arrest._

“We haven’t even _begun_ to scratch the surface of restoring order. Already back to the same inescapable fate of fending for lives that ain’t worth the dirt its farmed from.” 

Heartman’s attentive gaze is laced with melancholy. Sneaking his forlorn periphery to the sleeping beauty on his couch is met with a cold front of doldrums. 

How inexplicably tired he was. 

“So, how ‘bout it then? Where’s this third and final expedition team assigned to investigate and solve the problem, once and for all? Don’t try to ease the ointment, Mr. Pacifist.”

How selfish Higgs was. 

“It’s just like it was before. We get a not-so-generous chance at salvation, governed by our own faulty judgment, only to find ourselves sinking deeper in shit and piss. A far worse suffering compared to all those poor BTs at the mercy of a certain bland, drudging porter.”  
  
  


“Higgs.”

  
  
“She’s gonna do it this time. And you’ll only have yourself to blame. You, and your pitiful cohort of bastardised heroes. But, that’s the punchline, isn’t it. Once she’s done wiping the slate clean, erasing any trace of life as we know it, there’ll be no one present for jury duty.”  
  


“ _Higgs.”_

_  
__  
_“In the end, none of it matters.”

_Tick._

“Matter… antimatter…”

_Tock._

“We’ve served our purpose.”

_Tic._

“There’s nothing left to give.”

_Tic.  
_

“ _Nothing_.”

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
“ ** _Higgs._ **”

  
  


His name resounds, firm and insistent, but it’s the time he distrusts. He doesn’t know how long he’s ambled about, a raving mad man. Now placated to adrenaline-induced meditation, gazing out through a now clear, unobstructed window. Lo and behold, a moon appeared through weaning night, shining bright against the rapid migrations of altostratus, brilliant and ominous. Illuminating the lake with scattered light dancing across its placid surface. 

“Cliché as it sounds, time is of the essence.” Undertones of exhaustion. Perhaps, comforting for the retired particle knowing that Heartman was still human beneath that durable armour of exaggerated verve. 

“Authorisation and preliminary work for Bridges III has been well under way since the second crew’s emergence. Planning ahead is a vital necessity. Perhaps you are right in baring our ‘sin’ of insensitivity. An unfortunate sequela of divergent evolution.”

The sedated bitterness in Heartman’s tone is deadened. Half a rotation and the cure is prescribed with a longing glance to the framed photograph nearby. One bright-eyed, beaming young girl with a radiant future crowned above her head. 

“ _I wouldn’t expect you to understand_.” He whispers. Distinct and incisive enough to not go unheard. 

_Two minutes until cardiac arrest._

A quick, naturalised shift of fabric against leather in preparation for unorthodox transport. Albeit prematurely. Something else was troubling him, manifestly, to provoke this degree of restless, unenthusiastic propensity. 

Higgs would be lying if he denied the brief yet acute pang of hurt that surfaced in response to Heartman’s previous statement. He was no father, that much was true. The mere thought of bringing a child into this hellscape was enough incentive to not envy those defined by parenthood. It may not have evinced aptly, but closer inspection to the organ of freshwater (see heart-shaped lake) would reveal bone conductions, warm vibrations through the skull, reverberating through the chest, a rare, arrhythmic profession of vulnerability. 

“I suppose we’ve exhausted formalities by now.” Heartman sighs in retired submission. “A role of indisposable convenience behests your undivided attention.” 

Higgs meets him halfway, removing himself from the scenic, otherworldly view of nocturnal propensity. Where an undulating blanket of wintry grey once consumed each night and day, now gives way to variety. To expansion. To possibility.

His hunched form envelops Heartman’s slowly in silhouette, evoking the image of final farewells before the soul departs from the body. Before the deathbed yields itself to vehicular senicide. 

Leaning in ever closer, Higgs feels emboldened by chaos, a chilled ear pressing lightly against the faint thermal energy of Heartman’s chest. An act so fleeting and random in impulse so as to redirect his purblind guidance. To hear the man of drifting consciousness reinforce the calm before the storm. 

Higgs’ intent was to engender discontent. By the slight yet conspicuous tensing of Heartman’s smooth jaw, he smirks. Intimidation was the most unrefined expression of power. Alas, these were desperate times. 

“You should get some rest, my friend.” Heartman replies, distrait. “In the next 24 hours, you’ll no longer be captive to that depreciating uniform.” 

Moonlit ether rests upon his peaceful outline, a spectral glow that enhances his pastel complexion, if not betraying the true dichotomy of his identity. 

Before wood taps gently against wood, tar racing to suspended animation, his last words leave Higgs immobilised. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, the enshrouding mist of confusion disintegrates to a tenuous sheet of gossamer. Potential energy, dispersed in entropy about the room, was beginning to react with kinetic atoms, diffusing to a single element of equipoise. 

_30 seconds remaining._

Benumbed and rigid from lungs to fingers, stilled breaths and frostbitten tips are slow to recover from one vicinal utterance:

* * *

“ _Tomorrow is in your hands_.”


End file.
